


The Knight on the Bus Goes Thump, Thwack, Clang

by Elpie (Horribibble)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, LARPing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-21 00:01:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4807244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Horribibble/pseuds/Elpie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen flushes at the praise, shifting from foot to foot. The armor makes heavy clanking noises as he does. “Ah, damnation.”<br/>“Feeling awkward?”<br/>“I’m wearing a full suit of armor on public transportation because I can’t fit in a car, of course I’m feeling awkward.”</p>
<p>-</p>
<p>or:<br/>“i had to take the bus to comic con dressed in full knight regalia please stop laughing at me” AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Knight on the Bus Goes Thump, Thwack, Clang

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at Dragon Age fic. I hope it's not too much of a train wreck. 
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://anabundanceofstilinskis.tumblr.com/).   
> I need more people to cry at.

 

Dorian Pavus has never taken the bus in his life. He’s not particularly eager to make it a habit, either, from the horror stories that he’s heard. It’s not that he’s bad with crowds. All things considered, Dorian _excels_ in a crowd. There’s nothing he enjoys quite so much as engaging with others (and occasionally destroying them just a little bit. A therapist would tell him it’s a self defense mechanism, which is likely why Felix is still warring to get him into a therapist’s office.)

It’s not even him being a snob. He’s fine with people from all walks of life, even if he occasionally puts his foot in it. It’s just that he gets _colossally motion sick,_ and the idea of becoming physically ill--of displaying any sort of weakness, really--in front of a group of unknown entities puts him off a bit.

But he doesn’t really have any other options. He’s managed a truly miraculous collection of scholarships to supplement the aid Maevaris has so kindly offered, and he’s been working two different jobs to help foot the bill for his schooling. He can’t afford to hire a taxi to zip him about town, which is where he needs to go.

All he wanted out of today was a lengthy research binge, wrapped in the warmth and old book smell of the campus library. Which has apparently been closed for maintenance. It seemed rather fitting, with his recent luck, but he was determined to get some reading in.

Dorian fully intends to spend his Saturday drinking overpriced cappuccinos at the fair trade hipster hellhole that is the nearest local bookstore, if he can just get through this damned bus ride. He spends the first fifteen minutes staring at the floor and attempting a deep breathing exercise that does not help _at all_. People stare openly at the ‘Vint with the tattoos moving anxiously along his bare forearms, as if he might suddenly snap and decide to sacrifice them all the the Old Gods.

And then the bus makes another stop, and there’s a set of heavy, clanking footsteps. Unable to help himself, Dorian looks up and has to hold in an undignified snort. There is a man in a full suit of armor trying to maneuver politely down the aisle. He ends up standing just in front of Dorian, gripping one of the overhead loops as if this is all perfectly normal, and the bus continues on its merry way.

Dorian _does not laugh_ when the handsome blonde waves awkwardly at a wide-eyed six-year-old and her mother, but he _does_ let out an undignified squawk when the bus banks an unnecessarily sharp turn and he receives a lapful of startled knight.

“Sorry,” The man says. “I...er...not expecting that.”

“I dare say no one was, brave ser knight.”

The blonde rights himself carefully, regaining his footing and reaching down to awkwardly brush Dorian off. It’s unnecessary, but still adorable. “Yes, yes. The armor. I know.”

“Off to battle a dragon?”

“Maker, no. Just running about the park, getting hammered and doing historical reenactments. Are you not going?”

“...Me?”

“You’re in Tactical History, aren’t you? With Professor Stannard.”

Dorian’s first instinct is to curl his lip in distaste. Honestly, Meredith Stannard is the most overblown, bigoted ‘intellectual’ he’s had the displeasure to deal with in all of his academic life. And then he realizes that the other man recognizes him.

“You know me?”

“It’s hard not to. I thought she was going to wring your neck on Thursday.”

“It is not my fault that she is so determined to be _wrong_ about events of significance.”

“Didn’t say it was.” The man grins. “I was going to say something myself, but your argument was more eloquent, if insulting.”

“I was not raised to suffer ignorance.” Dorian frowns. “I’m sorry. You know me, but I’m at a loss. Which is astounding, because you are _devastatingly_ handsome in that armor.”

The would-be knight flushes a vivid red, his free hand reaching up to rub at the back of his neck. “I’m, ah...seated farther back. And I don’t speak up too much. Cullen. My name is Cullen Rutherford.”

“Rutherford? You’re at the top of the class!”

“I...ah...lots of extra credit. As you can see.”

“I’m sure there’s more to it than that.”

Cullen flushes at the praise, shifting from foot to foot. The armor makes heavy clanking noises as he does. “Ah, damnation.”

“Feeling awkward?”

“I’m wearing a full suit of armor on public transportation because I can’t fit in a car, of course I’m feeling awkward.”

Dorian grins. “I think it’s a brave fashion choice. A bold look for the winter season.”

“Why, thank you. I’d do a spin, but…” The man gives him a smile and a half shrug, and Dorian finds that he rather likes that expression. “Where _are_ you headed, if not to the reenactment?”

“I’d meant to do some research, purely for my own enjoyment, but the campus library is closed. The nearest book shop is…”

“Riddled with poetry snobs and a perfumed air of boredom?”

“Yes, exactly my aesthetic.”

“So you wouldn’t enjoy an afternoon of binge drinking and watching bulky men hit each other with swords?”

“What in the Void are you even reenacting? Do they _pay_ you?”

“I’m part of the local creative anachronism society. Occasionally we put on reenactments of actual historical battles for special events. Or when a professor is willing to offer extra credit.”

“Wait. Extra credit?”

Cullen laughs at the way Dorian perks up in his seat.

Any opportunity to force Professor Stannard to give his filthy, magic-using self a single drop of credit is a chance not to be missed. Spending time with the ruggedly handsome nerd in shining armor isn’t looking too bad, either.

“Is that open to…?”

“Anyone from seminar who shows up? Absolutely.”

“And Professor Stannard will be there?”

“Grumbling at us all for our lack of decorum. I know you of all people will enjoy that.”

“It does sound enjoyable. You mentioned the park. Is this event taking place outside?”

“How many dramatic battles do you think have been fought inside of high school gymnasiums?”

Dorian gives him an incredulous look. “There’s _snow_ on the ground. It’s _freezing_ out there, and you’re all meant to run amok outdoors in tin cans?”

“Trust me, I’m well-insulated. Not quite so well as you in your five sweaters, of course. I suppose the winters aren’t so cold in Tevinter.”

“I am wearing _three,_ thank you, and layers are in fashion.”

Cullen starts to laugh, realizes that Dorian is, apparently, serious, and proceeds to hold his breath. It would be irritating if it weren’t also disturbingly cute.

“And the winters aren’t so cold as your _summers_ in Tevinter.”

“What if I promise to keep you warm?” It’s only a moment after he’s spoken that Cullen realizes precisely what he’s said, and there’s that delightful blush again. Dorian wonders how far it spreads beyond the armor, a slow grin taking over his face.

Cullen coughs. “I mean--it’s not all that cold with the company. And the alcohol? I’ve put my foot in it again.”

“I’ve never been one to turn down alcohol and fine company. I think I may just brave the harsh winter climate to watch you gad about in your costume.”

-

The creative anachronism society is a colorful array of some of the most fabulously awkward people Dorian has ever met. He’s a bit uneasy at first. Several members of Cullen’s group are more than a bit suspicious of his shiny new ‘Vint. Cassandra is harsh and blunt when she asks Cullen about his friend, and Dorian stares at the third eye on her armor as if it might possess him.

“Are you staring at my chest? Truly?”

Dorian coughs, looking back into a pair of glaring hazel brown eyes. “Apologies, just a bit intrigued by your design.”

“...really.”

“I promise you, madame. I’m strictly dickly.”

That earns him roaring laughter from the Varric and The Iron Bull, both of whom clap him on the back entirely too forcefully. Blackwall is good enough to reach out and steady him, but he doesn’t say much at all in response.  Cassandra rolls her eyes and drags him down to the battlefield along with Evelyn and Cullen, who pauses for a moment, removes his fur-lined cloak, and drapes it around Dorian’s shoulders before heading off.

They’re followed a few moments later by Solas, who stays to give Dorian one last truly nasty glare before he pads after them.

Really, the man seems as if he has a second staff shoved neatly up his ass. The other elf, Sera, blows a raspberry at his retreating back before offering Dorian a mug of something warm and fruity. It’s already spiked, but he slides his flask out from under his myriad layers to add a bit more kick.

“Has a bit of a crush, does he?” Dorian asks.

Sera scrunches up her nose. “Nah, he just hates ya. Hates everybody. ‘Cept maybe himself.”

They chat for a while, Dorian asking questions about the group and receiving mixed answers. Apparently, some take this group far more seriously than others--Vivienne and Josephine, two more of Cullen’s friends--are apparently stationed along the field of battle to scold them about accuracy.

“That’s Josie, there.” Bull points to a lovely woman in a soft sweater and knee-high boots, calling out to a few of the troops to ‘maul like they mean it’ and giggling. Professor Stannard stands a few feet behind her, scowling, with a whistle hanging from her neck. She eyes Josie’s megaphone jealously.

On the other side of the field, a tall woman with a horned hat struts along as if the grassy terrain is her own personal runway, calling out fouls and demands for better performance. He can’t hear what she’s saying, but she gestures as if giving grand edicts, and the men and women on the field move eagerly to obey.

Dorian thinks she’s magnificent.

Soon enough, they’re joined by a redhead with a lilting Orlesian accent who is introduced to him as their spymaster, Leliana. “I help to organize the group, and I am usually in charge of this lot. Today, they are bandits. It is what they do best.”

“This surprises me not at all.”

Sera points distastefully to a spot on the field where Solas is casting a flashy spell with no real heart to it. “Better than being a glorified strobe light. He doesn’t even _look_ like he’s having fun.”

“Now, Sera.” Varric grins. “You know we’re not here for _fun_. We’re performing a community service.”

“‘m gonna service the community’s brains out.”

Dorian laughs along with the others, pressing his hands around his mug and closing his eyes for a moment, just to take it in. It’s nice to be around people like this, to be accepted into a group with no ulterior motives. And that’s when he notices the additional presence of a warm weight at his side. He opens his eyes, looking to his right where a tall blonde man with a truly massive hat covering his eyes is cuddling up against him.

“The safe hum of talking and no one looking at you, no one expecting anything of you. It’s warm like this, huddled up. Could stay for a while. We like you.” He says, too softly for the others to hear. “Cullen likes you more.”

“Kid,” Bull grunts, ruffling the boy’s hair. “We told you about doin’ that.”

“Sorry. It was important.”

Dorian has no idea what just happened, but he lays a hand on the other man’s shoulder and smiles at him. “Thank you, I think.”

“I’m Cole.”

“Dorian.”

“I remember.” Cole beams. “It’s almost time to ruin things.”

“I’m sorry?”

“He means that it is nearly time for the bandits to take the field.” Leliana says. “Would you like to join us?”

“Join you?” Dorian plucks at his sweater, clearly mismatched with everyone else’s war kit. “I’m hardly dressed. And I have _no idea_ what to do.”

“That’s the beauty of it. We run onto the field and make a nuisance of ourselves. There’s a few extra mage’s staves, if you’re up for it.” Varric gestures to a van with _Bull’s Chargers_ painted on the side inside a silhouette of what seem to be Bull’s horns.  

“So you want me to make a scene?”

“Not if you’re uncomfortable.”

“Oh, I’m _very_ comfortable. You’ll find that making a spectacle of myself is an integral part of my skillset.”

He polishes off the rest of his drink, strips off two sweaters, and goes with Leliana to get kitted up. He keeps Cullen’s cloak, it’s too deliciously warm to part with, and it’s certainly eye catching on a field of silver and gray.

He makes a point of singing Solas’ tightly packed ass when he makes his entrance to the battlefield. Bull reaches over an enemy combatant to fist bump him.

-

Dorian has no idea who won.

The bandits stand together at the end, patting each other on the back and talking shit, not even caring that they’re all covered in dirt, sweat, and dead leaves. Cole has one plastered right to his forehead, and he asks if he can keep it when the mage peels it off for him. Sera calls him a dingus, but then she bumps his hip with hers in what Dorian _hopes_ is friendly contact.

Cullen rattles and clanks over to join them after sharing a quick conversation with the familiar part of his regiment, and lays a gauntleted hand on Dorian’s shoulder. “Solas wants to kill you.”

“He’ll have to get in line. Right after Professor Stannard, I believe.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it.” He shakes his head. “I was...uh...wondering if you eat?”

“You were wondering if I eat.”

“That came out wrong.”

“Clearly. Were you perhaps trying to ask me out to dinner? Rather forward of you, _Commander_.”

“Ah. Caught that, did you?”

“I did, in fact. Shame on you, trying to trick me into thinking you weren’t a complete nerd.”

Cullen scoffs. “You’ve caught me. I’m a reenactment fiend. Leading men into simulated battle is my one true passion.”

“Now, I’d give you more credit than that. You’re a strong tactician and a skillful combatant.”

“You had time to observe all that, assaulting people’s backsides as you were?”

“That was a special treat for your sour-faced friend. All others I prefer to engage from the front.”

“Ah, so you’re honorable.”

“Anything _but_ , Commander! I’m a bandit, you see, and a filthy mage at that. There’s nothing redeemable about me at all.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“I’ll prove it to you over dessert.”

“Dessert?”

“That is, if you eat.”

“Maker, but you’re incorrigible.”

“You’re beginning to understand me.” He winks. “Give me a few moments to gather my things. It’s still bloody freezing out here.”

“You want me to help you with that?”

“Oh, absolutely. My very own knight in shining armor.”

“Har,” Cullen says. “Let’s see if you can help me out of it later.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
